[ Reception and a reflective shudder, resonant sound (was that Alice’s moan or his own, or both of them in kind?), Alice swept with Treavor in the current of this exaltation, this sacrament they’ve made of breath and breath and a leaping hand-in-hand to test unbound unbridled air, to find themselves buoyed upward on the rush of an ecstatic gust. To dwell among the clouds, aren’t they twined together far above the hold of earth, couldn’t they defy every goddamn thing if they wanted, haven’t they already done so?
There was never any danger of falling.
There is nothing, nothing to fear with this man.
This beautiful heart who holds Treavor and who presses into Treavor’s hold.
This improbable man who turns every moment dire, worth remembering and worth dwelling in, lingering and stretching out across. Who feels heartrendingly real beneath Treavor’s touch, whose reality redefines belief, whose smoke-brushed breath turns the whole world right again.
How courageous Alice is.
How far Treavor would follow him, and Christ, shit, fuck, he thinks there’s nothing he wouldn’t attempt for this man.
And Alice asks—
Again Alice asks, and again, that Alice asked - thought to ask or hooked words upon an impulse - strikes Treavor to stillness and means worlds (and suggests worlds about Alice, thoughts for another time, another day). He’s so careful. Alice is so, so wonderfully careful.
Can he.
Can Alice kiss him.
And Treavor’s smiling lopsided and a little wavered, eyes burning a little as the world kaleidoscopes in vivid color, resolving into Alice, everything, everything resolving into Alice.
That perfect, perfect guy.
The trouble is responding. The trouble is finding the air to respond, and Treavor swallows. Swallows and knows, yes, that’s the breath of Alice in his throat, that’s his guy bracing him, bracing him (with the help of his guy he can find speech!), and at last he manages quietly, with wondering, not-quite-steady ardor— ]
I’d… like that.
My beautiful guy.
[ Blinking, dizzy, and smiling still, astonished. ]
no subject
There was never any danger of falling.
There is nothing, nothing to fear with this man.
This beautiful heart who holds Treavor and who presses into Treavor’s hold.
This improbable man who turns every moment dire, worth remembering and worth dwelling in, lingering and stretching out across. Who feels heartrendingly real beneath Treavor’s touch, whose reality redefines belief, whose smoke-brushed breath turns the whole world right again.
How courageous Alice is.
How far Treavor would follow him, and Christ, shit, fuck, he thinks there’s nothing he wouldn’t attempt for this man.
And Alice asks—
Again Alice asks, and again, that Alice asked - thought to ask or hooked words upon an impulse - strikes Treavor to stillness and means worlds (and suggests worlds about Alice, thoughts for another time, another day). He’s so careful. Alice is so, so wonderfully careful.
Can he.
Can Alice kiss him.
And Treavor’s smiling lopsided and a little wavered, eyes burning a little as the world kaleidoscopes in vivid color, resolving into Alice, everything, everything resolving into Alice.
That perfect, perfect guy.
The trouble is responding. The trouble is finding the air to respond, and Treavor swallows. Swallows and knows, yes, that’s the breath of Alice in his throat, that’s his guy bracing him, bracing him (with the help of his guy he can find speech!), and at last he manages quietly, with wondering, not-quite-steady ardor— ]
I’d… like that.
My beautiful guy.
[ Blinking, dizzy, and smiling still, astonished. ]
Yes.